Dhraegon is in the Children's Garden. A Dragon kite is flying high and has been tied to a climbing sculpture while Dhraegon, a vision in pastel silks, long hair loose and hanging as long as his robes drifts about nibbling various flowers, yes as vacant and chill as the cloudless sky.

Aelia appears round a bend, followed by Mae, who is holding Aelia's infant son. She has wanted some new dresses, but while her body is still changing in its shape after her pregnancy, someone (probably Mae) has convinced her to settle for a light and brightly-painted silk cape that trails behind her.

Dhraegon's head turns that way, expression still that often unnerving nothing, and the the Prince smiles, all bright and warm like sun on a cold November afternoon. Opening his winglike arms with their extravagant long dagged sleeves, he bellows, "Little bird!"

Aelia immediately turns, barely even checking her path before she moves, and runs directly at Dhraegon. She loses a slipper on the way, which Mae follows at a placid pace to retrieve.

Dhraegon folds her in his silken wings, "How are you, Little Bird?" He looks concerned, as for him labor is an alarming and mysterious thing, from which some women never recover.

For all that that is true, and despite her family's history of failing to produce viable children, Aelia looks quite healthy. Pregnancy has added a little roundness to her face, and a blush in her full cheek. She presses her nose against Dhraegon's chest. "I am allowed to go out now. And the baby, a little."

Dhraegon rock her gently as he hugs her, "You feathers look well fluffed and I am glad you are well, My Dear. There aren't that many types of flowers in this season, but thse that are blooming are delicious if you are hungry." After a pause he asks, "Do you think they will let me hold the baby? Have you picked a name yet?"

Aelia steps back and narrows her eyes at Dhraegon. "Yes," she says firmly. "Hold the baby. An old man told me I cannot call it Egg, but /I/ can call it whatever I wish." This old man might have been a Maester, or any number of noblemen at the tower she might have crossed paths with. Or, who knows, even imagined.

Dhraegon gives one of his vaguey unhinged high pitched titters, "Oh but couldn't you pick a name like Aegona or Aegon and call it egg for short?" He rolls his eyes, "People are very silly about these things." He peers at her, keeping one wing around her shoulder, "Egg or not, you will always be my Little Bird and there will always be hugs and flowers for you."

"Hmph," replies Aelia, pulling her cape round one shoulder so she can look at it. But Dhrae's words own him some attention, too. She smiles at him. Then, more sternly, she says, "Now hold the baby."

Dhraegon lowers his aarms and approaches warily, as if the baby might leap up and bight him.

Mae steps forward with the infant. She's a steady young woman and waits until she's sure Dhraegon is ready and can support the child before she carefully transfers the child with a reassuring smile. "Your Grace."

Dhraegon, a person who is generally not trusted with cutlery more dangerous than a spoon, takes the baby in his arms like an expert, head carefully supported. He stares at the baby a little wide eyed, "No…tail or wings?" He does seem to be inspecting the visible bits of the baby for scales or the like.

Aelia shrugs and twirls. "Just Egg." And indeed the baby appears normal enough. The benefits of avoiding brother-sister congress might surprise the Targaryen traditionalists. The baby shows the expected violet eyes. Mae watches placidly from a step or two away.

Dhraegon beams at Aelia with real delight, "Well, done, Little Bird! This seems an excellent egg indeed. Will it be a boy chick or a girl chick?" He makes soft cooing sounds at the baby, rather like a dove, all doting smiles. If he is secretly hoping for dimples, he betrays nothing of it.

"Boy," Aelia answers. The baby seems mainly to be very sleepy at the moment. It has probably eaten recently, and Mae seems to be keeping it changed. The baby opens its eyes enough to see Dhraegon, and then they grow round. "Uncle," says Aelia, "How do they pick who is king or queen?"

Dhraegon seems delighted by this clever opening of the eyes by said boy and makes happy little sounds at it, "Good job, Little Bird!" He is thinking that this will making much easier to keep protecting her from the marriage market. That her question makes him wary is not visible in his posture, though there is a subtly flattening of his expression for a moment before he returns to his admiring of the baby, "It is usually the eldest son of the first wife, and if he's died then the next oldest and so on. Things are… a little trickier at the moment though, My dear. The young King has had people swear to accept his oldest daughter as heir, but no woman of our family has reigned alone and some… favor a different option. Why do you ask?"

The baby blinks at Dhraegon, but it does not cry. Aelia, meanwhile, watches Dhraegon while he answers, and looks as though she is trying to mentally track the line of succession. "They should choose a boy, they are better for fighting and traveling."

You say, "Ah, but girls often have to be so much cleverer, don't they?" He flashes her a benevolent smile. "Some do say that though, and want my wife's nephew instead of young Rhaenyra, Rhaenyra being oldest daughter from his first marriage, and my Wife's Nephew being oldest living legitimate son." He giggles and pretends to try to eat the baby, tickling his tummy gently, "A wug, wug wug!""

"WHo is your wife's nephew?" Aelia wants to know, watching Dhraegon with the baby. The baby burbles and squirms.

Dhraegon giggles in delight at the baby's antics, "Who is a clever, healthy Prince! You are!" Absentmindedly he answers, "Aegon's next King if young Rhaenyra and her sons get passed over." He seems delighted with the "Egg" and really is keeping a good hold on him despite not being trusted with table knifes.